


I whisper you name, like a thousand prayers

by A_Fading_Aubade



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/F, Femslash, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Infedelity, Kissing, Lesbian Sex, Pansmione - Freeform, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Sad Ending, Sex, Trauma, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 23:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17476823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fading_Aubade/pseuds/A_Fading_Aubade
Summary: Pansy knew she could never have Hermione Granger. Not completely. But it was okay, Pansy lived with a constant glimpse, however small, into Hermione’s life—maybe even her heart. Why else would Hermione keep coming back?That glimpse was enough, enough to keep her alive. Enough to keep her wanting more. But every time Hermione left for another, Pansy broke a little bit more than before.





	I whisper you name, like a thousand prayers

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first ever fic, so bear with me as I try and get the hang of this.
> 
> I realized there really weren't enough Pansmione fics in our fandom, so I wrote this one! It might be a bit OOC and it's written in an unusual way--not much dialogue (when there is though, it's written in italic). I hope you don't mind that, it's what I felt worked best with the fic.

Pansy knew she could never have Hermione Granger. Not completely. But it was okay, Pansy lived with a constant glimpse, however small, into Hermione’s life—maybe even her heart. Why else would Hermione keep coming back?   
  
That glimpse was enough, enough to keep her alive. Enough to keep her wanting more. But every time Hermione left for another, Pansy broke a little bit more than before.  
  
  
Pansy did not know when she had fallen in love with Hermione. Only that she had fallen, _fallen_ so very far, in an uncontrollable desire to _be_ with this woman. A need so strong it had taken over her life.  
  
Maybe it had started with Pansy’s tender crush, entirely alive as she had watched Hermione from afar all those years ago, questioning what it meant to like girls.  
  
Maybe it had been the tentative conversations, hidden between bookshelves and ink and soft apologies. _Let’s start over_ , Hermione once said. Pansy’s soul had soared.  
  
Or maybe it had been that very first time in sixth year. Hermione, crying once again over that insufferable redhead; and as always, Pansy had been by her side, comforting her.  
  
It was awkward and messy and had only happened once. But Pansy had finally, _finally_ found where she was meant to be, where she had always wanted to be—lost between the legs and lips of Hermione Granger.  
  
It had been utterly perfect and, as if for the first time, Pansy could finally breathe. Hermione’s face, streaked with tears as Pansy slipped her finger inside her still lived in Pansy’s mind, as vivid as if it had been yesterday. And as she had heard Hermione moan, had her _let go_ for the first time, she swore to hear it, _feel_ it once again—no matter how much time it would take.   
  
_Hermione_ she had whispered ever so quietly, because what did this mean?  
  
 _Don’t think too much of it_ Draco warned her, but her mind had reeled more than ever. That image of Hermione laid down, back arched, face tight yet undeniably free, caught mid-climax. Pansy had never seen something quite so beautiful.   
  
Even now, years later, heartbroken late at night, her chest tightens every time her hands wander between her legs. Unable to stop herself, she whispers that name over and over again, her soft, quickening breathing seen only by the dark and the moon.  
  
 _You know she has a crush on Weasley, right?_ Blaise had reminded her as Pansy once again, studied Hermione from afar. She had stared into nothing at that, choosing to not respond. Because she was, she really _was_ trying to ignore that small sliver of hope in her chest, born with Pansy’s name on Hermione’s lips. But it haunted her, day and night and she couldn’t stop thinking of that one night—the one Hermione kept pretending had never happened.  
  
But in seventh year, Hermione hadn’t come back, she’d left to hunt Horcruxes and Death Eaters while Pansy found herself trapped on the wrong side of the war. She’d listened to too many radios and read so many journals, hunting for that name. _Hermione_. She hadn’t cared if Hermione hated her, saw her standing with the Parkinson’s, next to the Dark Lord with hate. As long as Hermione was still breathing, Pansy would be alright.  
  
Pansy still clearly remembered that feeling in her chest when she had seen Hermione, back at Hogwarts once again, alive and radiant. Like a warrior.  
  
She’d felt her ribs break under the strain of her lungs because she was breathing, _breathing_ , for the first time in so long. Hermione was okay, unharmed in front of her. That was all that had mattered then.  
  
But she’d seen Hermione’s hands, once there for Pansy’s body alone, held in the hands of Ron Weasley, and they looked so in love. Pansy had let out some sort of strangled sound, wondering if the walls of the castle had suddenly closed in on her. The breath given to her only moments before vanished; she couldn’t speak, the thought of Hermione in love with someone else playing over and over again—like a broken record. Her hope had crashed and burned right in front of her and there was nothing she could have done about it.  
  
And then that voice, cold and slippery had seeped through the walls. _Give me Harry Potter._ And Pansy had thought of her parents, trapped under that dark power, ready to kill even Hermione to keep Pansy safe.   
  
And she’d been so dizzy, her heart screaming so loudly she couldn’t hear herself think. _You’ve lost her. Did you really think she could have loved you?_   
  
So she’d shouted, _But he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!_ Later in time, she’d sworn she had just wanted to save her family. But maybe it had been the need to gain back that piece of herself, lost in the midst of Hermione and heartbreak.  
  
The stare Hermione had given her then, as Pansy had been taken away to the dungeons, would never leave her. The disgust, the disappointment. Pansy’s heart shattered right there, maybe just a little bit. Nevertheless, Pansy knew it would never heal.  
  
She had never regretted anything more.  
  
And as the war had come to an end, Pansy left hoping, wishing the memories of a certain Gryffindor would simply fade. Pansy didn’t look back, simply walked away, fearing that frantic feeling war gave would never leave her, hidden in nightmares and dark corners, in touches and whispered names.  
  
—————————  
  
It took time for the Parkinson family to rebuild what they had once taken for granted. They used money and attended too many Ministry events. Pansy had even written letters—Merlin knows how many— apologizing. The main one being to Potter himself. Pansy hoped Potter had told Hermione, she hoped she had read it. Pansy hoped Hermione had somehow seen that the words on that letter, apologizing not only to Potter but to his best friend. To Hermione. _I’m sorry._  
  
Pansy had gotten through her trials, through her father facing Azkaban. She had lived through his return, his sullen face and quiet voice. She had heard the cries of her mother, she had survived the constant sorrow, hanging in the air of the Parkinson estate. She had faced the fact that her family would never be the same.  
  
Pansy had gotten through her trauma. She had woken up alone, tortured by nightmares every night for a long time. She no longer trembled at the sight of Hogwarts, no longer stopped breathing at any mention of the war. She had fought through so many panic attacks, so much grief. Nothing made her prouder.  
  
She had spent so many late nights consoling Draco, the latter feeling lost without a job, hurt by the cruel words of the press and heartbroken after his divorce with Astoria. She had helped him free his father from Azkaban, she had helped him heal his mother who’d struggled with severe illness after the war.  
  
She had held a crying Millicent, mourning her parents. Held a crying Theo, suffering from depression yet working through it, determined to become a successful healer.  
  
She had stood by Blaise’s side as he had pushed through the prejudice against anything Slytherin, anything once tied to the Dark Lord. He had become an Unspeakable after long year of studying and in her mind, she could still recall seeing him walking through the halls of the Ministry, wearing his uniform for the first time. _Hold your head up high, all you have to do is walk_ she had told him, utterly proud when he had done just that.  
  
She had helped Daphne find herself again after falling into the vicious cycle of anorexia and potion abuse. She had helped Vincent, the latter breaking under the grief of losing his best friend.  
  
The war had left so many scars on her loved ones, on herself, but Pansy had built herself a new life. She was surrounded by friends and a somewhat broken family, yet a family none the less. She worked as a Ministry official, finally respected, finally doing something she was good at.  
  
But each time that name, like a ghost, showed in the papers her body went numb. Every time that face, like a forgotten stranger, showed in the halls of the Ministry, Pansy wondered what it was like to be _truly_ happy.  
  
It broke her every time, that impassive stare as Hermione once again failed to notice her. And every time their eyes met, she’d remember that even though her life was built, it would never be complete. Not when Hermione played no part in it.  
  
No matter how many women came and went in her life, no matter how many she slept with, nothing filled the hole of loss, of the look on Hermione’s face that day at Hogwarts. Why couldn’t she let go? How could this love, this desperate love, live for so long?  
  
But she could still hear it, so clear at night, when lover after lover left her staring at the ceiling, unfulfilled and deep down, so distraught. _Pansy_ , over and over again Hermione had moaned. _Fuck me. Kiss me._  
  
 _I can’t be with someone who’s still pining after another_ a past girlfriend had once said, leaving for the last time. As the slam of the door echoed through her chest, Pansy had sunk to the ground, not because she had failed yet again at a normal, healthy relationship, but because it was true, she was in _love._ She was so in love—with someone who would never love her back.  
  
But was she in love with the real Hermione, married to that Weasley, working independently as a lawyer? The Hermione she didn’t know anymore? The one Pansy could only hope to get a glimpse of every day? Or was she in love with the memory of her? Lost between slow friendship and the Hogwarts library? She never knew; it was destroying her, because what if this was all for nothing? Self-Induced torture, entirely a fantasy—maybe even a lie.  
  
 _I’m in love with a ghost_ Pansy had once told Draco. _How can this be love?_ Pansy’s voice had cracked at that because she somehow always ended up longing for someone else. No matter how long things seemed normal, no matter how long Pansy seemed to be able to forget, at the end of the day, it all just circled back to the same person. _You love eternally, infinitely. That is all. Do not despise your deep feelings, because there is always a reason, no matter how incomprehensible they might seem_ , Draco had answered.  
  
—————————  
  
After so many years, the first time Hermione and Pansy had interacted, Pansy felt like she’d been punched in the gut, breathless and shaken.  
  
Pansy had been disheveled, her hands weighed down by too many papers and contracts as she had entered the elevator. Only once the doors had closed had she realized where she was.  
  
Hermione had been right there, next to her, her shoulders tense. They were alone. _Parkinson,_ the former Gryffindor had murmured, coldly, as if it meant nothing. _No, it’s me, Pansy. Say it, my name_ she had wanted to scream. But she’d just nodded, she had closed up, letting that usual mask of stone cover up any emotion.  
  
But inside, she was weakening, she was falling apart. Because she could feel it, the whisper of Hermione’s skin, merely inches from her own. She could taste it, Hermione’s breath, mingling with the very air Pansy herself was inhaling. Was Hermione thinking of that one time? Of Pansy’s fingers between her legs? Pansy certainly was.  
  
As Hermione had left, walking towards the courtrooms, Pansy’s legs had almost given out. More than that, her heart almost gave out too. But she could handle the indifference, at least Hermione had _seen_ her, something Pansy hadn’t been sure Hermione was still able to do.  
  
—————————  
  
The second time Hermione and Pansy interacted was merely weeks after the first time. Pansy and Hermione found each other once again in the same room, this time as colleagues forced to work together.  
  
Pansy worked in the Department of International Magical Co-Operation and was brought in to give information about one of her partnerships from Bulgaria. Hermione had questioned her, using the information to gain leverage on a new case. It had something to do with Hermione’s client, apparently framed by the Bulgarian minister—Pansy wasn’t sure. She didn’t care actually, because the second Percy Weasley had requested she meet with Hermione, Pansy’s mind thought only of _that_ for days.  
  
It had lasted two days, the questioning. Hermione talked mechanically, taking notes as Pansy tried to sound confident, not at all shaken by the imposing feeling of being too close yet too far from the woman in front of her.  
  
Percy Weasley was there too though, and Pansy gladly used him as a buffer. If it had been normal, Pansy might have seduced and flirt, maybe even make a bold move. That’s how she usually acted around women she fancied. But inevitably, Hermione was different; every time they met, she somehow managed to always throw Pansy completely off balance leaving only constant, persistent anxiety, as though, if the conversation ever strayed from Bulgaria, Pansy would simply blurt out _I love you_ or _Do you ever think of me? I think of you—too much._  
  
On the second day, Percy called in sick, much to Pansy’s surprise when Hermione walked in alone. Pansy had considered simply leaving at that, but a need to stay glued her to the spot—all she needed to do was remember how to breathe.   
  
It had been direct and professional; it almost hurt to act so detached, but that focused look on Hermione’s face, the way she bit her lip as she wrote made Pansy feel like she was flying. She’d never felt more alive.  
  
It had been easy to simply act like strangers, like work acquaintances. But Pansy knew even Hermione couldn’t ignore the lingering tension, the way the air weighed heavy with unsaid words and arising memories.  
  
At lunch, Hermione invited Pansy to eat; it had taken a minute for Pansy to respond, her mouth open in shock. _Y-Yes, of course._   
  
It was a bit awkward, but Pansy had never been happier.  
  
They talked about work mostly—a safe subject. Pansy asked of Hermione’s life, her heart sinking as the subject strayed to Ron. Pansy tried to keep the jealousy from clouding her eyes.  
  
It was over before Pansy had even begun to realize that the two days were in fact, real; those two beautiful days, spent so close to this beautiful woman. This beautiful woman whom Pansy had loved her whole life.  
  
Hermione had shaken her hand to say goodbye. The memory of it lingered on Pansy’s skin the whole day, and that night, illuminated by the moon and the stars, Pansy had let that hand wander between her legs. She had made sure that very spot—the one Hermione had held just hours before—touched her, stroked deep inside of her. _Hermione_ , she had moaned as she’d climaxed.  
  
Pansy wasn’t sure if it had made her feel good or bad about her self, but she couldn’t have stopped it if she had tried.  
  
—————————  
  
After that, every time Pansy happened to see Hermione at the Ministry she couldn’t help but take slight detours all day, if only to greet Hermione once again with a friendly nod.  
  
All Pansy wanted was a glimpse, a glimpse of that smile, that face. She just wanted to say that name aloud. She wanted it to mean something. _Hello Hermione. Hello Parkinson,_ she would always reply.  
  
But the joy of seeing Hermione never lasted. Pansy would hear the news of so many old friends, married and happy; she would return home to an empty apartment and that hole would return, deep in her chest. It left her feeling a bit emptier every time.  
  
And then there were the Ministry parties, boring and awkward. Sometimes Hermione was there, and as Ron would dance with her, talk to her, sickening smiles painted on their faces, Pansy would watch from afar. She usually just drank too much, and then drank more at home. Until the void of alcohol took her the slightest bit away from reality, making her forget the small talk from only hours before that had played out between Hermione and her, as if they were friends. As if nothing had ever been complicated between them.   
  
And when Hermione would watch her, Pansy stared back. _This is what you do to me, do you know?_ She could see Hermione’s disappointment, her confusion about Pansy’s behavior, but sometimes she liked to imagine there was something more behind those stares. As if maybe, just maybe, Hermione understood why Pansy did it.  
  
—————————  
  
Something changed when Draco started falling in love with Harry Potter. After Harry walked one too many times into Draco’s bookstore, the latter invited him for lunch—the rest is now history. When Draco told her the story, it reminded Pansy of Hermione and her, long ago at Hogwarts.  
  
The pair had blossomed. Draco paraded Pansy’s house wearing Ms.Weasley’s sweaters. She’d almost died of laughter at that. _It’s only to make Harry happy_ he had assured her, but Pansy knew. Draco had found a home. She only wished to one day too, find the same.  
  
And so Draco had dragged her to various get-together, had invited her to his house parties full of Harry’s friends. Pansy had been reluctant at first and only went when Blaise and Theo were obliged too.  
  
But funnily enough, they’d all kind of merged. Gryffindors could bite back at sarcasm and Pansy could somehow become a bit warmer, maybe even a bit softer when encircled by so many people.  
  
She didn’t always admit it, but it was quite nice. The group had broken through her walls, and she had found a place of her own in the weird mix of people. Everyone had—Blaise had even started dating Ginny.   
  
Hermione was almost always there, they’d had numerous conversations and helped each other with work quite often. They were friends, and nothing made Pansy happier.  
  
Pansy’s favorite topic was anything Hermione was passionate about. She’d simply admire as Hermione got that sparkle in her eyes. And when Hermione asked if she was talking too much, Pansy would simply answer _No, I like it when you talk about what you love._ Hermione usually blushed at that.  
  
If Ron Weasley had not always been there, glued to Hermione at the hip, Pansy might have reminded Hermione of their past, of that one glorious night. Or maybe she would have flirted, just a little bit. If only to see that blush stain Hermione’s cheeks once again.  
  
But no, that awful redhead was always there, kissing her, reminding Pansy of Hermione’s reality. Pansy tried to be nice to him, but he was unbearable—Hermione often had to break up the simmering beginning of a fight between the pair.   
  
Pansy wondered if Hermione had told him that Pansy and her had once bonded, over sex and books. Pansy wondered if it meant something if she had. Or if it meant something else if she hadn’t.  
  
But it didn’t stop Pansy from feeling like she was once again a young school girl, burdened with an intense crush. She analyzed ever touch, every stare, every scrap of attention Hermione mercifully gave to her.  
  
She tried really hard to just move on. Especially on nights when Hermione looked at Ron with such love, such fondness and Pansy knew she could never be more than a friend. It was too late for that.   
  
But she couldn’t stop the pining, the longing. The realization, every time Hermione looked her way, of how beautiful she was. She couldn’t help but notice the bickering between Ron and Hermione. She couldn’t help but hope that those lingering touches and lively conversations somehow meant something.  
  
—————————  
  
Nearing the end of the year at yet another Ministry party, Hermione entered alone, dressed in a deep blue dress. The darkness of her attire stood out in the crowded room and somehow, dressed in the night sky and surrounded by people, she looked more lonely than ever.  
  
Her cheeks were stained pink and her eyes, red and glistening shone under the harsh lights of the room. It was obvious to Pansy that Hermione and Ron had fought once again—anger spiraled through her.  
  
As Pansy watched Hermione talk to the Minister and her colleagues, moving from one person to the next she also watched Hermione drink champagne after champagne, she watched as Hermione downed one too many fire-whiskeys, more than once.   
  
It was only a few hours later when most guests had left that Pansy found Hermione, swaying slightly, humming to herself near an empty table.  
  
 _Let’s take you home_ Pansy had said and Hermione flat out refused, obviously quite tipsy.  
  
 _No, no, no. Show me your home. No, let me stay over, please. On the couch. I’ll leave early, I’ll— Don’t make me go home_ Hermione had babbled, tripping over her words.   
  
Pansy wondered what kind of fight had triggered such a need to escape. Hermione took Pansy’s arm and they apparated with a loud crack.  
  
As they arrived at the small apartment, Pansy quickly hurried to the kitchen, muttering something about making tea. She rubbed the place on her arm where Hermione’s hand had rested, it tingled and burned.  
  
As Pansy returned to the living room, two steaming mugs in hand, she found Hermione lounging on the couch, lost in thought. As Pansy sat in a soft chair facing the other woman, Hermione jolted out of her haze, taking the mug in her hands. _Thank you_. Pansy swallowed hard.  
  
Silence settled around them, in the air, in their bones. As if being here together, had somehow frozen the beating of their hearts.   
  
_You seem to be a bit better_ Pansy chuckled, trying to fill the suffocation she felt.  
Hermione didn’t respond. She simply set down her mug, walked determinedly towards Pansy and took her hand so that the pair stood to face each other, only a breath apart.   
  
Seconds stretched out for an eternity and Pansy simply stopped thinking, stopped _breathing_. She wondered how she’d been able to live before, so far from this moment.  
  
And as if Hermione had finally made her decision, she snapped and took Pansy’s face between her hands, kissing her hard on the lips. Brutal and necessary. Pansy had never fallen from quite this high.  
  
For an incalculable amount of time, Pansy simply flew—she was floating, she was crashing back to reality, over and over again like waves on a shore.  
  
It surprised Pansy, how forceful Hermione was, demanding entrance with her tongue, exploring her mouth as if for the first time. Only the sound of heavy breaths and wandering hands sounded, their bodies pressed so tightly against each other it hurt.   
  
They were kissing, _finally_. And it was more than Pansy could have ever dreamed it could be; they were speaking an unspoken language, with their mouths and their hands and their souls. It was better than last time yet much the same, Pansy hadn’t forgotten the feeling of Hermione’s lips against her own.  
  
As they broke apart, Pansy’s barely moved, scared any small movement could make this all fade. Her vision cleared as she watched Hermione carefully.  
  
 _Hermione, you’re drunk_. Pansy’s chest tightened as she said it, wondering if she was a bad person because of how much she wanted this—given Hermione’s state only some time ago.  
  
 _Shhh_ , Hermione whispered, silencing her. _You ground me_ she added. Words got stuck in Pansy’s throat.  
  
But standing in front of her, Hermione had somehow woken up. Her eyes were dancing, her stare electric. Her hair a wild mess, her hands shaking with anticipation.  
  
Pansy couldn’t deny it, Hermione looked utterly and completely _alive_. Pansy knew, she knew it wasn’t the alcohol. It was the undeniable static that rested in the air, the color of their breaths and the unwavering desire in their eyes.   
  
Once Pansy realized that Hermione wanted this, that she had probably thought about it before, there was no going back.   
  
In seconds, Pansy pulled Hermione back towards her, kissing her, devouring her. They somehow managed to find Pansy’s room, their hands free to explore each others bodies.  
  
As they fell together on the bed, they scrambled for one another, taking off their clothes. Their actions were fast and messy, as if they couldn’t be with each other fast enough. Pansy needed to feel skin— _only_ skin—underneath her, inside her.  
  
As Hermione laid down, pulling Pansy on top of her, only frail bits of undergarments remained. Pansy trailed her mouth down to Hermione’s neck, going slowly for the first time since that initial kiss; the need to taste the woman beneath her stronger than anything else.  
  
As Pansy approached her breasts, Hermione let out a whimper, arching towards Pansy’s touch. Pansy wanted to make it different from Hogwarts, she wanted to make it better—she knew what she was doing this time. She was going to make this so good for Hermione that she would have no other choice than to come back. To beg for more.  
  
Because Pansy knew deep down, in a distant trail of thought, that this might meant nothing. Because there was Ron and Hermione and their friends and their jobs. And Hermione didn’t love her, not enough.   
  
That didn’t mean Pansy wouldn’t make the most of it—gladly breaking her heart in the process.  
  
Pansy unclasped Hermione’s bra and threw it aside as she took Hermione’s nipple in her mouth, sucking lightly, maybe torturously as she massaged the other, rolling the other neglected nipple between her fingers.  
  
As she licked a bridge between both breasts, savoring the feel of it, she could feel the damp spot on her underwear, increasing, increasing. Because the _sounds_ Hermione was making; Pansy was going wild. She’d never felt this aroused.  
  
And it only became stronger, as Pansy took the other nipple in her mouth—twisting it with her tongue as she let her fingers wander, ever so slowly downwards. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, harder than before, her fists tightening their grip on the bedsheets.  
  
Pansy slipped her hand into Hermione’s underwear—a lacy red thing that honestly shouldn’t be allowed at a Ministry party. She let her finger drag torturously slowly between Hermione’s wet folds, grazing her clit, making Hermione whimper as she brought that same finger up to her mouth, tasting what she had craved for far too long.  
  
Suddenly, Pansy was the one underneath and Hermione held Pansy’s wrists in her hands, staring at her from above.   
  
This time, it was Pansy’s turn to be teased, Hermione’s fingers trailed over her skin like a whisper of a secret. Pansy’s eyes fluttered closed, her mouth going dry at the thought of Hermione taking initiative, of actually wanting this.  
  
And as both women kissed and caressed and stroked, the soft red light emanating from the street outside painted shadows and dancing rays of light over their skin, over the raw aura of the room.  
  
Pansy barely saw anything, she simply _felt_. She felt her fingers slip between the soft core of Hermione, she felt her lover arch beneath her as Pansy massaged her clit, pushing her towards a powerful climax. She swore to remember it forever, the feeling of Hermione clenching around her, moaning loudly as she orgasmed.  
  
She felt Hermione spread Pansy’s legs, she felt the need, deep inside of her tugging at her navel. She felt Hermione slowly lick her way up her thighs, towards that sensitive spot between her legs.  
  
Pansy’s hands gripped Hermione’s hair as the latter spread her legs further, unraveling her. Hermione sucked on her, her fingers pumping in and out; Pansy wondered if this would be the end of her—the feeling of Hermione everywhere; inside her, on top of her.   
  
And as the pair orgasmed together, they were nothing but bodies made entirely of emotion. No thought lingered, no doubt remained.  
  
It was only after it all, as Hermione lay asleep, her body splayed across Pansy that she let herself wonder if this would ever happen again.   
  
—————————  
  
It was the heartbreaking sense of reality crashing into her that hurt most of all. The feeling of utter happiness as she woke up, only to realize Hermione was gone, only to realize this truly meant nothing. Maybe nothing at all.  
  
It could have been a vivid dream if not for the small note resting near Pansy’s bed. _I’m sorry, please don’t tell anyone._ Regret, that’s what Hermione probably felt. Maybe that was the worst possible outcome.  
  
But the memories of Hermione, climaxing beneath her, whispering filthy words in her ear made it okay. Made it bearable. Because at least Pansy had this, this small memory. Something only Hermione and she had, something only they shared. Pansy couldn’t have asked for something more wonderful than that.  
  
—————————  
  
After that, Pansy ignored every worry; she drowned her thoughts in work and errands. She didn’t reach out to any of her friends for days, fearful that any meet-up might end up including Hermione.   
  
It was only after weeks of endless routine and distraction that Draco barged into Pansy’s home, demanding she attend his get-together that same night; Pansy refused.  
  
But he rambled and whined, only giving Pansy a smile once she had given in and promised she’d be there. Merlin knows who could say no to a determined Draco. Pansy regretted it instantly yet after weeks of refusing to feel anything, she somehow finally felt alive again, dread and excitement replacing the constant numbness she had succumbed too.  
  
  
Pansy thought she might throw up that night as she stood in front of the Leaky, willing herself to walk in. She could see her friends from afar, she could see bushy hair, peaking out from behind Ron. _I buried my hands in that hair as she tasted me. Does Ron know that?_  
  
She breathed heavily, opening the door but—no, not yet—she practically ran towards the restroom first, hoping for some silence before facing the group. She wasn’t running away she swore to herself, no she wasn’t.   
  
The muffled music sounded through the walls of the bathroom as Pansy looked into the mirror, her fists gripping the sink so tightly her knuckles were turning white. She watched herself carefully; the dark red lipstick couldn’t hide the obvious fear in her eyes nor the sinking feeling that the second she saw Hermione, her soul would unravel and shatter.  
  
Pansy was torn from her thoughts by the sound of the door opening as someone walked in. She didn’t even have to turn her head to know who it was. _Hermione._  
  
The brown-haired witch remained silent, simply stared at Pansy as she leaned against the door, her arms behind her back. As if the simple stare could reveal what was being left unsaid.  
  
Pansy said nothing, she had nothing to say. _About what happened_ Hermione finally said, launching into an apology—apparently, she had avoided speaking to Pansy, too afraid to own up to what had happened. Pansy just watched as Hermione talked, faster than Pansy had ever seen before.  
  
 _It was nice—quite nice to be honest. But it mustn’t happen again. I feel guilty enough already, I don’t want to bring you into this mess,_ Hermione said uncertainly. Pansy had expected it, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.  
  
Pansy kept her face passive and simply answered, _Don’t think too much of it, though do tell me if you change your mind_ Pansy didn’t know what she was really trying to say, but as she left Hermione alone in the bathroom she watched the other woman roll her eyes, clearly trying to cover up the hesitation that rested beneath her stare.  
  
That unsure stare arose many times throughout the night. Pansy would feel Hermione’s eyes on her, her expression unreadable, and every time she’d look towards those eyes, Hermione would jerk her head to gaze at something else. To say the lease, it confused Pansy—but excitement lingered as well. Why has she been afraid of this?  
  
It continued for long weeks. Pansy could see Hermione’s stares, _feel them_ on her body, gliding alongside her very blood and bones. Sometimes they held questioning hesitation, sometimes evident guilt and if Pansy was lucky, unmistakable lust.   
  
Pansy knew better than to tease Hermione. But when she brushed Hermione’s arm, just a little bit, that lovely blush would spread on Hermione’s cheeks and the tingling sensation in Pansy’s chest sent her reeling.  
  
As Hermione watched her, Pansy would simply stare back. Unashamed and resolute. She knew—she _knew_ what they were both thinking about. Memories of breathy moans and naked bodies, sharing powerful climax in the midst of the night.   
  
It was only weeks after their conversation at the bar that Hermione snapped, once again under the effects of alcohol. Pansy didn’t know if that made it worse than nothing to happen at all.  
  
Nevertheless, Pansy couldn’t resist when at another one of those Ministry parties—it seemed that Pansy quite enjoyed them now—Hermione, alone without boy Weasley, gave in.  
  
Hermione could never fall in love with her, Pansy knew that. She’d whisper it to herself, over and over again, hatefully trying to diminish any lasting hope. But that didn’t mean she didn’t see the lust in Hermione’s eyes, the need for distraction tugging at her every word. _Make me forget Ron Weasley._ Hermione didn’t have to say it for Pansy to understand.  
  
So when Hermione backed Pansy against the bathroom wall, drunkenly whispering for Pansy to take her home, to fuck her till she couldn’t breathe, Pansy could do nothing but oblige.   
  
As the night stretched out and time became nothing more than an idea, mouths found skin. Tongues met, soft curves laid bare, moans echoing heavily in the dark. And as Hermione came, arching beneath her, Pansy wondered when love had become so cruel.  
  
When Pansy awoke to filtering sunlight and soft breeze, the empty bed next to her broke through the silence of her mind. The rushed, hand-written apology lay alone on the bedside table, it looked like a lover’s letter—it was anything but. Pansy let out a soft whimper and dissolved with the emptiness of her home.   
  
—————————  
  
After that, Hermione and Pansy fell into an unspoken agreement. Every time Hermione was mad at Ron or simply lonely, she would Floo to Pansy’s apartment. Most of the time, Hermione drank before they did anything, as if alcohol could diminish the guilt of infidelity. Pansy knew it only made it stronger.  
  
They’d fuck until they were both shaking and speechless. Hermione always left before Pansy could wake up.  
  
Pansy knew Hermione hated the way she was acting, the way she was treating Ron, the way she was treating Pansy. But she also knew, in the midst of lust and heated encounters that Hermione couldn’t find it in herself to stay away.  
  
It broke Pansy every time. But the few days in between each meet up weren’t enough to convince herself to end it. Because every time Hermione lay beneath her, Pansy’s love resonated so strongly within her she worried it might seep through her skin. The feeling was so electrifying it hurt.   
  
Pansy suddenly was in love with a person she _knew_. A person she talked too, a person she could admire and touch. Her love had never felt this real.  
  
Because it was so clear; Pansy loved the way Hermione’s mind worked. She loved the way Hermione would scrunch her face when faced with a challenge and the way her hair fell like waves down her shoulders as they lay together in bed.  
  
And maybe it was worse because of how much better it got each time their mouths met. Pansy knew they couldn’t ignore the way their bodies remembered each other, more and more every time. Pansy knew of the sensitive spot on Hermione’s thigh, she knew of the whimper she made when she was close. Hermione knew of Pansy’s love for hickeys, she knew it only took a few dirty words for Pansy’s undoing.  
  
But it wasn’t only their bodies, it was the soft conversations after, draped over each other. They talked about books and the war, of fears and work. And as their words got deeper and more meaningful each time, Pansy wished they could stay like this forever, lost in between confessions and the night.   
  
Hermione still pretended their exchanges were nothing more than a convenience. Pansy wondered if she would ever have to find the strength to end it, to save herself from the pain she knew the future held.  
  
But the midnight discussions, subtle caresses and glorious sex had to mean something, right? Or was Pansy still lost in the fantasy of unrequited love?  
  
—————————  
  
Pansy never knew what to expect at house parties. Sometimes Hermione would ignore her. Other nights, as if Hermione was purposefully trying to annoy Ron, she’d talk to Pansy, she’d touch her arm and her thigh. She’d ask what Pansy thought of her skirt when Ron admitted it was too short.   
Pansy hated those nights the most.  
  
Tonight was worse than ever, Draco had even taken Pansy aside, asking if she was okay—you look pale he had pointed out. Pansy could only blame the alcohol, but as Draco followed her gaze towards a certain brunette, she knew he understood. Pansy wondered if Draco had ever told Harry.  
  
She hated it because she loved it—no, she hated that she loved it, Pansy couldn’t deny that. Hermione was giddy and reckless, touching Pansy underneath the table, asking Pansy about her day. Pansy thought she might throw up, purely because of how fast her heart beat every time Hermione approached with a smile, an oblivious Ron on the outskirts.  
  
As Pansy made her way towards the bathroom, she suddenly found herself pulled into the guest bedroom. Pansy’s mind spiraled as Hermione pushed her against the wall, her eyes ablaze.  
  
As she voiced her confusion, Hermione only answered _Distract me_. Pansy knew what she was, but that didn’t mean to hear it out loud didn’t make her throat tighten, didn’t make her chest clench in pain. _I am a distraction. I am the ghost of her anger only Ron Weasley can awake._  
  
Pansy smashed her lips onto Hermione’s without thinking. If Hermione wanted her to be a distraction, that was what she would be. Nobody made Pansy succumb to weakness as Hermione could. And Hermione didn’t even know of how strong that power was.  
  
It was barely kissing, merely a battle of desire and need. Pansy could only taste all that was _Hermione._ She wanted more, she wanted to forget where she was. What she was doing. Why she was doing it.  
  
Hermione slid her hand under Pansy’s dress, far enough until her fingers were deep inside her. Pansy closed her eyes and exhaled tightly, relishing in the raw feeling she bathed in as Hermione pushed in and out of her.   
  
As she came, eyes closed, she moaned Hermione’s name. She wondered if Hermione was starting to, in some subtle way, need her. If that was why she was taking such a risk, Ron only two doors down.  
  
They left the room, disheveled and flushed, trying their best to hide smudged lipstick and hitched clothing.  
  
But as Pansy watched her, she could see it, embedded in Hermione’s gaze, in the way she held onto Ron, in the way she spoke. There was sadness buried there, new and profound. Pansy couldn’t understand why it felt so new.   
  
—————————  
  
Pansy quickly realized the heavenly occasion at the party had not been a new beginning, but as she had been too afraid to admit to herself, a goodbye.  
  
After that one night, Hermione stopped coming. There were no last-minute Floo calls, no letters to announce her arrival late into the night. Pansy barely saw her at the Ministry—she figured she was avoiding her. Pansy pushed that thought far away though, she couldn’t bear it.  
  
Pansy tried too many times to arrange meetings, to see each other once again. Flimsy excuses were sent in response. She was screaming through an empty line and only the static of her sadness could fill the endless silence.  
  
She drowned herself in work and alcohol, in endless muggle movies and shopping. Anything to keep her mind elsewhere. No sex though, Pansy hadn’t been able to bring herself to look at someone else that way in a long time.  
  
Pansy hated what it did to her. She felt as if her heart weren't her own—the way it dominated her life, the way she couldn’t control it.   
  
Finally, the bell rang one night and Pansy knew who it was. Her hands shook as she opened the door and Hermione’s name resonated in her mind like an ongoing echo. She’d gotten used to this feeling but the sight of Hermione, wide-eyed and drenched from the rain made Pansy stumble a bit. The scene imprinted itself in Pansy’s brain like a breathless scrap of time she hoped to never forget. She suddenly remembered why she’d fallen in love with Hermione in the first place.  
  
They stared at each other for a long time, the rain filling the heavy silence—an anchor both women could hold onto, unsaid words lingering in their eyes.  
  
As Pansy silently opened the door for her, she noticed Hermione’s agitated steps, her crisped back, her frantic eyes searching, searching for something that wasn’t there. They hadn’t seen each other since the party yet somehow Hermione seemed entirely different. Pansy couldn’t figure out why. But she felt different too. Was it the air, the rain? What had happened? What had shifted?  
  
They made small talk, as if no tension vibrated in the air, bringing them closer with every breath, every empty word. _You stopped coming_ Pansy blurted, unable to ignore the lingering question. _I had to deal with some things._ Pansy didn’t know what it meant, but Hermione’s words left her feeling as lost as before.  
  
But it was still there, the weird feeling deep in Pansy’s chest, that Hermione’s face—her soul, wasn’t completely at rest. It never really was, so why did Hermione seem so conflicted? _This is either a beginning or a goodbye_ Pansy didn’t let herself guess which one it would be, she’d let herself hope too much already. Nothing good had ever come with hope.  
  
Hermione let out a heavy sigh, her gaze still electric. She walked over to Pansy and abruptly, almost incoherently, kissed her. If that made any sense. It was the only way Pansy could have described it.  
  
It was violent and empty. It was passionate and overflowing with emotion. With every touch of tongue, every breathy moan, Pansy could feel more and more. Her love was leaking out of her; she wasn’t sure she could hide it much longer. Not when Hermione kept touching her like that. Not when Hermione was here, in her arms.  
  
Pansy wanted Hermione to say her name—she hadn’t since that first night at Hogwarts. Because it still hurt every time Hermione said Parkinson. The detachment of the name hurt. But Pansy didn’t trust herself to not break if Hermione were to actually say it—her name once again.  
  
Pansy didn’t realize they’d already entered her room, she didn’t realize she’d pinned Hermione against the wall. There was only her soul, naked and bare. There was only Hermione’s body, Hermione’s mouth moving against hers.   
  
It was fast and messy. The air thrumming with desire as they fell onto the bed together, holding each other so tightly they could barely breathe.  
  
Time suddenly slowed as Hermione pulled away and both women sat on their knees facing each other, staring into places much deeper than eyes can allow. The silence was no longer suffocating her, it was embracing Pansy, she was swallowing it whole.  
  
They were half dressed and aroused. Hermione’s lips were swollen and Pansy couldn’t help but stare at them. This made Hermione blush, Pansy would do anything for that blush; she wanted to continue but her hands were still shaking.  
  
Hermione opened her mouth to say something, Pansy knew what it would be. She’s didn’t know if she wanted to hear it. So she kissed her, forcefully once again. But like before, time had slowed down and it felt as if the outside world had always been a mere word, an illusion. There was only them and the stories their bodies needed to tell.  
  
It was careful and intense, Pansy slipped her fingers under Hermione’s bra straps and dragged them down slowly, her gaze still lost in Hermione’s eyes. The tension was alive, ghosting over her skin, between her legs.   
  
They continued to undress, until there was nothing more their skin and the breeze, wafting through the open window. Pansy had never felt so raw. She wanted to cry but tears wouldn’t come. She looked, searching for something, hoping it was written somewhere on Hermione’s face. Like constellations mapped on a night sky, it could have been hidden in the dark. Except she didn’t know what she’s looking for, not really.  
  
Hermione took charge, crawling towards Pansy, laying her on her back. She held Pansy’s wrists above her head with one hand as her gaze roamed over Pansy’s body. Her neck, her breasts, lower than that. Pansy shivered.  
  
She let the other hand wander, tracing her name on Pansy’s stomach. _Hermione_ , as if she wanted to engrave it there forever. She trailed down her arms, over her breasts. She gripped her neck, caressed her back. She wandered lower and hesitated. Pansy arched her back in response, _please_ she whispered _touch me, somewhere deeper_.  
  
So Hermione did and Pansy felt like she might explode as those fingers rubbed against her clit and slipped inside her. Pansy moaned, closing her eyes so tightly they watered. _Look at me while you come_ Hermione said,—Pansy’d never felt this aroused—her voice was low and rich, her fingers still thrusting in and out of Pansy, thrusting so far Pansy felt like Hermione might be tempted to rip out her heart. Maybe she already had.  
  
But then Hermione lowered her body, her fingers still inside Pansy and spread her legs between Pansy’s. It started slow, hitting the right spot each time as they rubbed against each other. As Pansy ground against her, Hermione whimpered; a need coiling between them to go harder, faster. To consume each other. So they kept going, thrusting, moaning until they climaxed together, their gaze still locked. Pansy had never felt anything like this before. It was almost too much, her feelings too big for her body.  
  
They laid there for a while, their foreheads pressed against one another. A single tear ran down Hermione’s face, Pansy could only kiss it away. She continued placing kisses, on Hermione’s cheek, on the corner of her mouth, all the way down to her breasts.  
  
One after the other she took both nipples in her mouth, sucking one, stroking the other. She couldn’t stop, she stooped lower until her head was between Hermione’s thighs, her tongue inside her, sucking lightly on her clit. Pansy gripped Hermione’s hips and relished in the taste of her, the feeling of Hermione spread out, for her  
  
And then Hermione said it, only once as she came. _Pansy_ , she moaned. Pansy broke, right there. She shattered.  
  
Pansy sat back on her knees, her whole body shaking. Her magic was spiraling out of control, she could feel it like shadows swirling in the air, coiling themselves around her, choking her, freeing her.   
  
Tears started to roll down her face, her shoulders shaking with every sob. Hermione sat as well and took Pansy in her arms. As she cried into Hermione’s embrace, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. _I love you_ she said, barely a whisper. She said it again, louder. _I love you_.  
  
It hung in the air like silence, it echoed through their bodies, against Hermione’s skin. Pansy couldn’t look up but she heard the answer, a faint murmur. _I know._  
  
Pansy knew she wouldn’t say it back, but it hurt nonetheless. She was used to this pain, to feeling this numb, this alive.  
  
Pansy drew back to look at Hermione. Her face looked pained, _a mirror of my own_ Pansy thought. Hermione pressed her forehead against Pansy’s and sighed. It silenced the air, it silenced any lingering thoughts.  
  
Wind and drunken laughter sounded from the window; car lights sprinting across the room. It made the atmosphere seem unreal, maybe too real.   
  
They laid pressed against each other for what seemed like an eternity. Pansy wondered when things had changed.   
  
And as Hermione leaned in to kiss her, without words, Pansy tried to speak louder than ever. She poured her past into the kiss, she gave Hermione her love, her pain. It was a question and an answer all at once. It was the night and the stars, the rain starting to fall outside, the wind still whispering. _I love you_ Pansy wanted to say again. She did. She didn’t ask if Hermione did too.  
  
And then Hermione was crying too. _I’m pregnant_ she whispered, her voice cracking. Pansy pulled away in shock. If she had thought she couldn’t bear more pain, the broken feeling consuming her was so much worse. As if the world was crashing around her, in utter silence. This was goodbye.  
  
Hermione was still searching for something in Pansy, her eyes frantic, blurred with tears. Pansy couldn’t take it—not anymore. She wanted to scream, she wished she could mend her heart, but some scars would never fade. Still, she could only try.  
  
 _Goodbye Hermione_ Pansy whispered, the words tugging at her heartstrings painfully. Hermione seemed afflicted, her eyes hesitating between the door and the broken woman in front of her. Guilt rolled off of her in waves of pain, the whole room dark and empty. Where love had reigned moments before there was only sorrow.  
  
Hermione knew what role she had to play; she softly, gently took her clothes and got dressed with trembling hands. Pansy wasn’t looking at her, she just stared at the floor, in a trance.  
  
With one hand on the door, Hermione cried and whispered _I’m sorry, Pansy_. An apology, an ending. The worst words Pansy had ever heard.   
  
Pansy looked up and both women simply stared at each other. Hermione left and Pansy knew it was the last time. She wished she had known it had been the last kiss, the last touch.  
  
Because Hermione was going to go back to Ron. She had chosen Ron, she had chosen her family. Hermione hadn’t had to say it for Pansy to understand. Maybe Pansy had always known.  
  
She laid on the bed, naked, the cold breeze still scratching at her skin. She didn’t care. She curled into herself and closed her eyes. Wishing for her mind to fade, wishing for her tears to end.   
  
She could only feel the darkness of the room, crashing around her. She could hear her heart breaking. Even her magic seemed heavy and lifeless. What an ugly thing love had been to her.   
  
She wondered what death felt like. It might have been something like this, perhaps something kinder.  
  
—————————  
  
Pansy did not know when she had fallen in love with Hermione. Only that she had fallen, _fallen_ so very far, in an uncontrollable desire to _be_ with this woman, to love her completely. So strong, it had taken over her life.  
  
Years later, as she walks down the halls of Ministry she sees a certain brown-haired woman. They lock eyes. Hermione has gone back to greeting her as Parkinson. Pansy’s gotten used to that, but the pain never really fades.  
  
Maybe one day she’ll leave and run far from this world—start over. Maybe one day she’ll fall in love again. But Pansy knows, some memories you can never really escape.    
  
Maybe Pansy’s blood had been woven with the threads of tragic fate. Maybe in another world, Hermione might have had the courage to stay. But reality lives on and Pansy never forgets.  
  
Some nights, she whispers Hermione’s name over and over again. Like a thousand prayers, she pleads to an unknown God. Like a thousand prayers, she holds on to something that isn’t there. _Hermione. Hermione. Hermione._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it, and if you did feel free to leave kudos and comments (even constructive criticism is helpful!). :)
> 
> I'll try and post other fics soon. Xx


End file.
